


Geralt and The House of overly Affectionate Furniture

by The_Exile



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dark Comedy, F/M, Furniture Coming to Life and Fucking People, Hair Kink, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Language Kink, Nibbling, Post-Game(s), Sex in the Blood of their Enemies, honestly not as messed up as it sounds because I mostly imply it, mild adoptive family issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 10:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20172547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Exile/pseuds/The_Exile
Summary: Geralt and Ciri have a private moment, sort of, in a haunted house full of randy poltergeists.





	Geralt and The House of overly Affectionate Furniture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).

Using his Witcher senses to stay in perfect rhythm with her heavy breathing and the swaying of her slender body, he leaned over, parted her soft grey hair and nibbled gently but firmly down the nape of her neck, leaving a trail of faint teeth marks. She gasped and whispered something involuntary and only half-legible, which he responded to with the sort of growled, insistent sounding things that seemed to turn her on if he remembered to whisper them in her ear in Imperial High Nilfgaardian.

While rather preoccupied, he still caught the faint swishing sound coming from behind him, descending from above, aimed dangerously close to head height. Swearing in a much more guttural dialect of Mahakam Dwarven, he swiveled his arm around and cast Aard. There was a satisfying thud, then several creaks and snaps, then splinters rained in a fine shower all over the antique four-poster king-sized bed where they lay tangled up in silk sheets. 

She turned her head to glare at him.

"Did you have to stop what you were doing specifically to do that? There is sawdust in my hair," she muttered.

"We weren't exactly clean to begin with, Ciri," he pointed out. They'd had a bad experience with a flock of harpies on the way to the old mansion and they'd not had a chance to wash, what with the bathwater here being fatally unreliable. Once they got there and verified that they were alone, nothing they'd done was conducive to getting any cleaner.

"Was that the hat stand you killed? What exactly did you think it wanted to do? I mean, you told me the furniture comes to life here but you also said not to worry because it just wanted to join in."

"The thing was behind me and I couldn't see what it was. I had a flashback, okay? Not to put too fine a point on it, when I was last here by myself and I didn't know exactly what kind of poltergeists this place had, I sat on this bed for a nap - I'm still not convinced there isn't some mild enchantment around here that makes you just a little sleepier and less inhibited - there had been a stuffed Wyvern head on the wall, with all horns intact..."

"I do not wish to know the details."

"Quite understandable, but just so you know, that's how I got the scars on my..."

"I can see them quite clearly, thank you, and I admit I was wondering why they looked so much like Wyvern gore marks. May I remind you that it was you who suggested we came here?"

"After you insisted we go and do something more exciting, more adventurous, the sort of thing that Witchers apparently get up to according to that theatre production Dandelion dragged us along to..."

"I don't recall you being all that critical of it at the time, distracted as you were by those Elven ladies wearing about as much as we are now," she pointed out.

"Indeed, and I recall the same of you."

"How does a place get haunted... in this particular way, anyway?"

"Ghosts with lots of unfulfilled sexual frustration? An invisible voyeuristic sorcerer? I don't know," he shrugged, "They didn't pay me enough to exorcise it, anyway. Its not harming anyone. Mostly. As long as you stay out of the mansion unless you know what you're doing."

"Which you do, of course," she gave him a skeptical side glance.

"Look, the only other place around here that meets your description is this Kayran nest I found down the road, so we could either go there and..."

"I never said I wasn't enjoying myself," she interrupted him, pulling him back down to the bed before he could finish throwing another Aard at an unsuspecting footstool. Grabbing his wolf-white hair, tugging one of his intricate Dwarven braids a little more roughly than he expected, she turned his head so that his golden feline eyes met her own. Then, in Nilfgaardian, she commanded, "I just want you to concentrate on what you're doing. Now."

Geralt shrugged and got on with it, reasoning that there were two elite Witchers in the room and they both had good enough reflexes, as well as simple shielding enchantments cast and defensive elixirs still coursing through their bloodstream making his eyesight go slightly funny, that they'd be able to deal with an over-insistent piece of furniture or two.

These weren't the sort of things he used to say very often before he'd finally left the two sorceresses behind for good, he mused. Since then, he'd had more time to spend with Ciri, finding out new things about himself even at his age, and about her. Such as, she wasn't a child any more, hadn't been for a long time, and she didn't think of her mentor as a parent. That she was as randy as any of the male Witchers most of the time, despite not being on as many of the drugs, and that her tastes were even more skewed by her monster-slaying lifestyle and the unorthodox company she had kept for most of her life. That she really didn't have the mindset to inherit the Imperial throne but she did have a morbid sexual fascination with the idea. That neither of them really suited a normal life with normal habits. That, like himself, she had her memories she refused to share even with him, that she might never be ready to disclose, no matter how close they were these days. This was okay, he'd reassured her time and time again - it was expected in their profession. 

As the morning sun rose the next day, the two Witchers emerged, battered and weary yet satisfied in their souls, from an abandoned mansion that was still very much haunted, although it now had one fewer set of drapes after an errant Igni sign which, upon reflection, the thing had deserved, considering what it had tried to do to them first.


End file.
